Fang Talks

Now with random slogans!

As an amateur writer I sometimes like writing short, often single-part works. Here you’ll find the ones I chose to publish for whatever reason. Enjoy.

Imagine, for a second, an innocent television show.

Perhaps it’s a children’s cartoon. Maybe it’s a lazily-written sitcom. It’s filled with good, clean fun. And that’s what you had hoped to get out of watching it, but after seeing a few episodes things appear to be a bit… off. It’s incredibly subtle, but the character’s personalities and action seem to be muddled by a shared state of being. You can’t quite make it out. Anxiety?

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If Demons are indeed producers rather than victims of the Void, and are not Demonspawn (at least, such cases are highly uncommon), one has to ask how they originate, and what lies at the core of their being.

The reality, for some difficult to comprehend, is that these enigmatic beings were once like you and me. Regular human minds trapped in regular human flesh. Or, for species that can control Magic, animal minds in animal flesh. And that is where the key to their Demonic origins lies: Magic. All Demons are creatures who have collected vast amounts of True Spells, and used them to further themselves into the Void.

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He’d always had a thing for jumping from great heights. You can probably tell where this is going.

Nobody really knew him as a thrill-seeker. His life didn’t revolve around it, he never made it part of his personality. He just, occasionally, liked jumping off things. Not your just regular Friday-night bar stool jumping though. No, he had given that up as soon as he hit his head on the ceiling and screwed up his landing. Roofs of small buildings were still fair game somehow. Three stories he handled gracefully, not breaking a single bone in his legs in all the times he tried.

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Loosely based upon real events.

Upon entering the waiting room the first thing I notice is this lady, probably in her late thirties, early forties, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief that looks too soaked for the task. I look around, mutter a “good afternoon” to nobody in particular, and sit down a few seats away from her. The strikingly yellow ballerinas she’s wearing barely touch the ground, and every teary hiccup causes them to dangle for a little bit. A few quick glances in her direction teach me nothing new. Other than heavily distressed, nothing appears to be wrong with her. Maybe she’s waiting on a family member? Before I can imagine a backstory, the doctor calls for me.

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A profession kept alive through generations.

Thick leaves brush against my face, the moisture they held on to mixes with my sweat. It’s been hours, how many I do not know. The tight canopy blocks out practically all light. A compass and counting of steps continue to be my only guides. I pray both are still in good order, and push onward through the foliage.

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